The popular conception of the war in Vietnam, is that it was widely opposed from the start. What is forgotten is that, at least in Northern New England, the majority of the people, and even college students either supported the effort, or were at least silent in their opposition.
I can call to mind two events, long forgotten probably by even those who were present at the time. It was during my sophomore year at the University of New Hampshire (1965-1966). At that time, some of the more hard-hearted professors would admonish the class to study harder by warning them of the consequences of failure, which meant getting drafted. During my freshman year, an acquaintance of mine from the class ahead of me, failed to heed this warning, and to avoid being drafted, enlisted in the Army to become a paratrooper. He shortly found himself serving with the 101st Airborne Division in Vietnam, where his young life was tragically cut short. The university newspaper ran a rather lengthy story about him, quoting some of his letters home, and there was a general sympathy for the sacrifice he had made, even among some of the more pacifistic students.
How different that time from when I was ordered overseas in 1969, when a former college friend, in responding to a letter I had written telling him of my news wrote, “If you get killed or wounded, you’re only getting what’s coming to you.”
When spring brought the UNH campus out of its winter cocoon in 1966, word spread that a group of Quakers planned to hold a peace vigil in the Memorial Room of the student union, the Memorial Union Building, commonly called the “MUB.” The Memorial Room had a wall sized plaque with the names of UNH alumni, who had died in service during our past wars. Ironically the class of 1942, my father’s class, had the largest number of names from WWII, as 1968, my class, was to have in Vietnam.
The group proposed to walk from a silent vigil they would hold at the front gate of Pease AFB in Newington, NH to the Durham Campus and do the same when they arrived at the MUB.
Word quickly spread across the campus, and soon a large crowd, mostly male as I remember, gathered in front of the MUB, a few carrying American flags, to wait the arrival of the “Peaceniks,” and deny their entry. There was a strong feeling that to hold an anti-war vigil would desecrate the purpose of the Memorial Room. Rumors would spread through the crowd like a zephyr rippling across water as to the progress of the marchers. As I remember, some of the information was being relayed along by the police, as the local law enforcement agencies appeared to be in sympathy with the crowd. Had any violence been acted towards, the protestors that day, I doubt to this day that they would have received a lot of protection.
At last word arrived that they were at the outskirts of town, and people strained to see them coming. Unlike what anyone probably expected, the group consisted of about a dozen people, dressed in black, most of them older than we. As they walked quietly up the sidewalk on Main St., not a few of them looked terrified. The crowd, shouted, jeered, and probably a few water balloons or empty beer cans may have been tossed. From where I stood, off to the side, I could not tell if they said anything, but they did appear to pray.
My own feeling at the time was I thought it inappropriate to hold a peace vigil in a room honoring war dead, but the other half of me felt it was their right to do so whether I agreed with it or not.
After a few moments, the group decided not to try to enter, walked away and everyone went to the dining hall for supper.
I went to Germany that fall to study, and when I returned in 1967, the “Ballad of the Green Berets” and “Billy, Don’t Be A Hero,” had disappeared from the radio, and the crowd on the lawn of the MUB had now forgotten what they had done, that spring day in 1966.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
The Book Is Ready
I received a call last night that Where is Crusader Rabbit, Now That We Really Need Him? is now available at the address below"
http://stores.lulu.com/wmillar
I believe it is also available through Amazon.com
It is early, and I have things to do, such as getting ready for 16" of snow coming, so I have no time to write something of great meaning at this time. Later today, perhaps.
http://stores.lulu.com/wmillar
I believe it is also available through Amazon.com
It is early, and I have things to do, such as getting ready for 16" of snow coming, so I have no time to write something of great meaning at this time. Later today, perhaps.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Dedication
I have been asked when Where Is Crusader Rabbit, Now That We Really Need Him? will be available for sale. My daughter, who has been the force behind getting it out of the attic, informs me that it will be ready around the end of February 2009, and we will post that information when it becomes available.
If one is interested, there is a comment on one of the posts, placed there by Heather, which shows the pictures that will appear on the front and back covers, the dedication page and the comments on the back cover.
On the dedication page, one of the persons to whom I dedicated the book, and to whom it was actually dedicated, long before Susan, Heather and Laura were in my life, is “Doc.” Doc was actually a young man named Clark Douglas, who served as the medic of the Second Platoon, while I was platoon leader. As the medic, he was a part of the platoon command post, along with the platoon sergeant, and our two radio operators (RTOs). During normal operations he stayed close to me along with my RTO, while the platoon sergeant and his RTO brought up the rear or the other flank to avoid the situation of “one grenade will get us all.”
Doc was a born leader, a person who seemed to know no fear, but without bravado; a person, who saw the physical hardships as something to grouse about from time to time, but not much beyond that. He greeted the new lieutenant in his shiny, straight from the supply depot uniform, with skepticism. I guess I passed his test, because we quickly became friends. I would have liked to have continued this friendship beyond the Army, but it was not to be. Several weeks after I was transferred out of the platoon, to give another lieutenant his shot at “command time,” Doc was killed going to the aid of a wounded platoon member. He was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross, our second highest decoration, posthumously.
Unlike the combat situations in Iraq and Afghanistan today, we were brought into units as individual replacements and left the same way. It was difficult to keep track of friends once they had left. One of my biggest regrets over the years was that I had no contact with Clark’s family.
For me, the best part of this book and blog is that I have found Clarks’ daughter, born while we were together, and his wife. I still grieve their loss, but I am happy that they are the good people one would expect. It gives me pleasure to know that there is a part of Clark Douglas, my comrade in arms and good friend still among us.
If one is interested, there is a comment on one of the posts, placed there by Heather, which shows the pictures that will appear on the front and back covers, the dedication page and the comments on the back cover.
On the dedication page, one of the persons to whom I dedicated the book, and to whom it was actually dedicated, long before Susan, Heather and Laura were in my life, is “Doc.” Doc was actually a young man named Clark Douglas, who served as the medic of the Second Platoon, while I was platoon leader. As the medic, he was a part of the platoon command post, along with the platoon sergeant, and our two radio operators (RTOs). During normal operations he stayed close to me along with my RTO, while the platoon sergeant and his RTO brought up the rear or the other flank to avoid the situation of “one grenade will get us all.”
Doc was a born leader, a person who seemed to know no fear, but without bravado; a person, who saw the physical hardships as something to grouse about from time to time, but not much beyond that. He greeted the new lieutenant in his shiny, straight from the supply depot uniform, with skepticism. I guess I passed his test, because we quickly became friends. I would have liked to have continued this friendship beyond the Army, but it was not to be. Several weeks after I was transferred out of the platoon, to give another lieutenant his shot at “command time,” Doc was killed going to the aid of a wounded platoon member. He was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross, our second highest decoration, posthumously.
Unlike the combat situations in Iraq and Afghanistan today, we were brought into units as individual replacements and left the same way. It was difficult to keep track of friends once they had left. One of my biggest regrets over the years was that I had no contact with Clark’s family.
For me, the best part of this book and blog is that I have found Clarks’ daughter, born while we were together, and his wife. I still grieve their loss, but I am happy that they are the good people one would expect. It gives me pleasure to know that there is a part of Clark Douglas, my comrade in arms and good friend still among us.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Inauguration Day
My first “tour” at Ft. Benning, GA, home of the Infantry School, was in 1951, when my father was recalled to active duty for the Korean War. A veteran of World War II, he had remained in the inactive reserve, something a five year old did not understand. He and my mother had just purchased a house and moved in with my sister, not yet one year of age. All I knew is we were going far away, and I had to have a lot of shots before I could be registered in the on post elementary school.
Up to that point I had never been further away from home than my grandparents’ house, a three hour distant ride. Traveling by train, plane and automobile, we arrived in Columbus, GA, two days after leaving my grandfather’s in New Hampshire, and moved into an army housing area called “Battle Park.”
Integration of the armed forces was underway at that time, but not complete, and some commanders dragged their feet at incorporating black troops into what had been all white units. The commander of the battalion to which my father was assigned was a southern gentleman, who believed that placing all the blacks in his command into a separate company was “integration.” My father, a reservist (and a Yankee), and therefore considered by the regular army officers to be at the bottom of the pecking order, was placed in command, and was, indeed, the only white in an infantry company of black soldiers. Shocked wives of his fellow officers asked my mother if he carried a gun when he went to the field, and were more stupefied at my mother’s response as to why he would want to do something like that.
For most people, who serve in combat, the unit you serve with stays close to your heart. And that is true with my father. He is still a proud member of the 104th Timber Wolf Division, but though he will turn 90 this year, he remembers with great fondness, that all those great guys at Ft. Benning, who accepted a red haired Irish guy from Maine as their commander and who could stand tall with any man.
Today we saw the inauguration of our first African American president. How far things have come in a lifetime. And to the Brothers I had the honor to serve with: Right on!
Up to that point I had never been further away from home than my grandparents’ house, a three hour distant ride. Traveling by train, plane and automobile, we arrived in Columbus, GA, two days after leaving my grandfather’s in New Hampshire, and moved into an army housing area called “Battle Park.”
Integration of the armed forces was underway at that time, but not complete, and some commanders dragged their feet at incorporating black troops into what had been all white units. The commander of the battalion to which my father was assigned was a southern gentleman, who believed that placing all the blacks in his command into a separate company was “integration.” My father, a reservist (and a Yankee), and therefore considered by the regular army officers to be at the bottom of the pecking order, was placed in command, and was, indeed, the only white in an infantry company of black soldiers. Shocked wives of his fellow officers asked my mother if he carried a gun when he went to the field, and were more stupefied at my mother’s response as to why he would want to do something like that.
For most people, who serve in combat, the unit you serve with stays close to your heart. And that is true with my father. He is still a proud member of the 104th Timber Wolf Division, but though he will turn 90 this year, he remembers with great fondness, that all those great guys at Ft. Benning, who accepted a red haired Irish guy from Maine as their commander and who could stand tall with any man.
Today we saw the inauguration of our first African American president. How far things have come in a lifetime. And to the Brothers I had the honor to serve with: Right on!
Saturday, January 17, 2009
The End of Innocence
It was a golden warm September afternoon at the University of New Hampshire in 1964 when we trooped over to the ROTC supply building to be issued our uniforms.
The floors creaked, and the interior was divided into bins screened off with heavy wire.
We lined up at the metal counter behind which stood a grizzled, retired sergeant from World War II, now an army civilian employee. The whole place smelled strongly of wool, canvas and leather.
We drew a garrison cap, a dress jacket, which the old NCO called a “blouse,” upon the lapels of which were round brass pins with the flaming torch insignia of the Reserve Officer Training Corps; pins which we would be required to polish. We were given a pair of woolen trousers, (“Only girls wear pants,” the sergeant had told us) a black tie, socks, a brown shirt, a belt with a brass buckle, also requiring polish, and a pair of black army shoes, which we would also learn to spit shine. For many of us, these shoes also became our dress shoes.
We bore the uniforms back to our rooms openly and proudly so that the girls could see them as a mark of our manhood.
Our fathers had worn such uniforms and now it was our turn. We, too, would go to Europe and fight a war to preserve freedom and democracy.
Little did we know that in a brief time, these same uniforms we proudly slung over our shoulders, would be symbols of scorn and contempt, and the war we thought we would fight would be in the steaming jungles of a place most of us had never even heard of.
The floors creaked, and the interior was divided into bins screened off with heavy wire.
We lined up at the metal counter behind which stood a grizzled, retired sergeant from World War II, now an army civilian employee. The whole place smelled strongly of wool, canvas and leather.
We drew a garrison cap, a dress jacket, which the old NCO called a “blouse,” upon the lapels of which were round brass pins with the flaming torch insignia of the Reserve Officer Training Corps; pins which we would be required to polish. We were given a pair of woolen trousers, (“Only girls wear pants,” the sergeant had told us) a black tie, socks, a brown shirt, a belt with a brass buckle, also requiring polish, and a pair of black army shoes, which we would also learn to spit shine. For many of us, these shoes also became our dress shoes.
We bore the uniforms back to our rooms openly and proudly so that the girls could see them as a mark of our manhood.
Our fathers had worn such uniforms and now it was our turn. We, too, would go to Europe and fight a war to preserve freedom and democracy.
Little did we know that in a brief time, these same uniforms we proudly slung over our shoulders, would be symbols of scorn and contempt, and the war we thought we would fight would be in the steaming jungles of a place most of us had never even heard of.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
As I sit here waiting for the Arctic chill to hit, and make me doubt the existence of global warming, I can think back to how hot it was in Vietnam. The heat was like a blanket wrapping around you, one you could not throw off. It was as if we were constantly on the verge of suffocation. I often wondered if we walked into an ambush, would we be alert enough to spot it, or in some cases even care.
When the cold arrives here, I will be able to throw another log on the fire and put on an additional layer of clothes, but with heat, there is no way to cool down. The dense foliage in Vietnam held it in, and even splashing through a swamp or fording a stream offered no relief as the water was close to body temperature.
In watching our troops in Iraq, confined to the ovens that the armored vehicles can become, with sleeves rolled down, helmets and body armor, I wonder how they can even move. If you have never suffered heat exhaustion, I do not recommend you try it. The headaches are excruciating.
I recently asked the son of a friend who has been deployed three times to Iraq and Afghanistan how they manage to function in that environment. His response was,"We drink a lot of water, and we have all been trained to administer IV's."
My heart is always with our young men and women who are over there. To be sure, the First Cavalry Division is among them. When one considers that many of our troops are on multiple tours, one has to admire their courage, even if one doesn't agree with the war.
So, to those over there, "Keep your heads down and stay safe."
When the cold arrives here, I will be able to throw another log on the fire and put on an additional layer of clothes, but with heat, there is no way to cool down. The dense foliage in Vietnam held it in, and even splashing through a swamp or fording a stream offered no relief as the water was close to body temperature.
In watching our troops in Iraq, confined to the ovens that the armored vehicles can become, with sleeves rolled down, helmets and body armor, I wonder how they can even move. If you have never suffered heat exhaustion, I do not recommend you try it. The headaches are excruciating.
I recently asked the son of a friend who has been deployed three times to Iraq and Afghanistan how they manage to function in that environment. His response was,"We drink a lot of water, and we have all been trained to administer IV's."
My heart is always with our young men and women who are over there. To be sure, the First Cavalry Division is among them. When one considers that many of our troops are on multiple tours, one has to admire their courage, even if one doesn't agree with the war.
So, to those over there, "Keep your heads down and stay safe."
Thursday, January 8, 2009
The journey of the book
Writing Where is Crusader Rabbit Now That We Really Need Him? has been a long journey. While taking ROTC in college I was advised to enlist in the Regular Army, for doing so, would guarantee my first assignment and branch choice. Majoring in German, I thought Military Intelligence and a government sponsored trip to Germany would not only be a great way to avoid Vietnam, but would be a good time. I took the advice and was commissioned as a Regular Army second lieutenant with a branch of MI. Then the shoe dropped: Regular Army, non-combat branch officers, had to serve a year in the infantry, but not to worry, I would still go to Germany where my then fluent knowledge of German would be put to good use. I could envision myself gliding up and down the Autobahn in my new Porsche.
On the day of graduation from the Infantry Officer Basic Course, my orders were changed to Ft. Hood, TX. That base, needless to say, had not been on my choice of places to go. From November 1968 to April of 1969 I was a platoon leader in the 1st Armored Division, commanding a platoon of Vietnam returnees, many of whom were suffering PTSD, and many of whom were escaping the crushing boredom and loneliness of the place with drugs.
In April of 1969, I received orders late one Sunday afternoon advising me that I would be going to the Jungle Operations Training Center in the Panama Canal Zone en route to the RVN with a Military Occupational Specialty of 1542, small tactical unit leader. Needless to say the dreams of the Porsche evaporated.
Realizing that, for better or worse, I was about to embark upon something far larger than myself that would appear in history books in the future, I began to keep a journal. The opening paragraph of Where is Crusader, is a verbatim copy of what I wrote shortly after taking off from Oakland, CA. I maintained the journal until the constant soaking from river crossings and monsoon rains destroyed the remaining pages.
In 1973, now out of the Army and teaching school, I began to reconstruct the journal and what I remembered. For four years I typed it all down on the back of scrap paper I rescued from the school’s trash bin. Once it was done, it made several moves and eventually it was dragged out of the attic and put on a computer disk.
My daughter, Heather, decided that I should publish it, and for Christmas 2008, presented me with the first copy.
Everything in this book actually happened. However, I have changed the names, even though in some cases I had permission to use them. In some cases, several people have been morphed into one character, but it’s all true, folks. It is my hope that the good men, and the majority were super, that I served with will see themselves and take pride in what they were able to accomplish and adapt to.
On the day of graduation from the Infantry Officer Basic Course, my orders were changed to Ft. Hood, TX. That base, needless to say, had not been on my choice of places to go. From November 1968 to April of 1969 I was a platoon leader in the 1st Armored Division, commanding a platoon of Vietnam returnees, many of whom were suffering PTSD, and many of whom were escaping the crushing boredom and loneliness of the place with drugs.
In April of 1969, I received orders late one Sunday afternoon advising me that I would be going to the Jungle Operations Training Center in the Panama Canal Zone en route to the RVN with a Military Occupational Specialty of 1542, small tactical unit leader. Needless to say the dreams of the Porsche evaporated.
Realizing that, for better or worse, I was about to embark upon something far larger than myself that would appear in history books in the future, I began to keep a journal. The opening paragraph of Where is Crusader, is a verbatim copy of what I wrote shortly after taking off from Oakland, CA. I maintained the journal until the constant soaking from river crossings and monsoon rains destroyed the remaining pages.
In 1973, now out of the Army and teaching school, I began to reconstruct the journal and what I remembered. For four years I typed it all down on the back of scrap paper I rescued from the school’s trash bin. Once it was done, it made several moves and eventually it was dragged out of the attic and put on a computer disk.
My daughter, Heather, decided that I should publish it, and for Christmas 2008, presented me with the first copy.
Everything in this book actually happened. However, I have changed the names, even though in some cases I had permission to use them. In some cases, several people have been morphed into one character, but it’s all true, folks. It is my hope that the good men, and the majority were super, that I served with will see themselves and take pride in what they were able to accomplish and adapt to.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Where Is Crusader Rabbit Now That We Really Need Him?
Where is Crusader Rabbit Now That We Really Need Him? is a novel based on the author's experience as a platoon leader with the First Cavalry Division in Vietnam from 1969-70. It takes the reader on a journey through the jungles, through the eyes of very young infantrymen to the life of troops in the rear areas, where the comradeship of the field did not exist. The reader meets the young soldiers of an unpopular war, who were, in the end, as noble and courageous as American soldiers in every other war, and those who were interested only in advancing their own careers. The author draws on the journal he kept while in Vietnam and his letters home.
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